


Safe and Sound

by jenovasilver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Gentle!Lock, Ghosts, Guilt!fic, Hound of the Baskervilles, Hurt/Comfort, Illusions, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Never letting you go, Pride before the fall, Survivor Guilt, Sweep the flat....really., Temporary Madness, Tending Wounds, War, Wibb!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenovasilver/pseuds/jenovasilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's alone and scared as he wanders London with the ghost of his past. Sherlock searches for him but will he get to him in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettySami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettySami/gifts).



> I clearly love drugged characters...and fluff....so um....enjoy!? LOL! Thanks for the hits and kudos!

***********

**He must run faster!**

Sherlock ran to him, ran through the busy streets of London almost as if the fires of hell were on his feet…John was going mad, he thought he saw his friend that he lost in the war and was trying to save him. Trying to save a dead man, truly he was **delusional**..

He had to TAKE responsibility…but he would deal with the guilt when he found John, he remembered the look on his face, the terror, the desperation and sadness…the _utter hopelessness_.

Such a look was almost poetic in its tragedy, John kept many things from his time in the service hidden…Sherlock could decipher most of them..this one however he denied knowing.

To John, this man was a close friend…probably closer then he would want to admit, but in times of war, things like friendship and love aren’t immune to suicide bombers and shrapnel and this friend met a _cruel_ fate. John tried to save him, he did everything he could but the wound was so severe, the blood lost too great…and he died in John’s arms.

Salvaging the broken pieces of his heart…Sherlock knew better then to think that everyone dealt with grief on the same intellectual layer as him. John’s heart was NOT to be dissected like any other man because in that same heart, he knew that John kept a place for him as _well_. And he wouldn’t DARE do a thing that could endanger that…he’s already crossed the lines FAR too many times and was thankful each time John gave him another chance of redemption.

Now that same strength, the boundless well of forgiveness…was lost and hurt in London, cold and not himself.

This feeling, this panic…in this state, Sherlock was capable of _anything_.

 

**God help anyone that gets in his way.**

*************

“John.” A voice crept into his skull, it was hollow and weak, the sounds of the battlefield rang in his ears, ‘Save him!’ over and over the commands came, ‘Not another one! Damn them!’ John reached his hands out in the air like he was performing surgery, ‘I-I don’t want to die..p-please.’ The blood…so much blood, men..gasping their final breaths, bullets breezing by heads.

“John…save me.”

“I tried to…I did.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“But you ARE dead…it’s too late..” John’s eyes shut, trying to block out the visions but he was already there, the smell of blood and sand…he couldn’t stop the bleeding…the artery was cut. He didn’t have time, never enough time, “S-stop..I'm so sorry.”

“John…please, it’s so cold.” John felt the hand of someone on his shoulder and snapped, no one was there, not a soul,  “John, the light…I don’t want to go to it…please.”

“I’m sorry…so sorry….I can’t…” The 11pm train was passing through, he heard the horn and tried to get away from the danger, the hands returned…touching his face.

“Please…I’m…waiting, here…please don’t leave me..” The hands were leading him onto the tracks, like a lure pulling him further into his madness. "We can go together...please. Just don't leave me again." John fell over the tracks, the wood splintering into his palms and feet..he knew this was a lie but the voices, the touches..the guilt. Louder and louder.

He wants to get away, to realize that this was a lie and wake up...there was no blood covering his body, the smell of burning flesh..the screams, they were all in his mind...his memories.

Combining, colliding with the sounds of the oncoming train, John heard a voice that WASN'T a memory...that was real, it struck his core but everything was becoming blurred...frenzied. The voice became louder, feet digging into the gravel.  
  
The blinding lights of the train, the whistle sounding.  
  
"John...come home."  
  
"JOHN!"  
  
Fear, guilt, saddness...and hands, pulling him...

 

**Darkness.**

**  
**

Nobody stopped him, no one approached him, Sherlock hailed a cab with a glance that could freeze the devil’s blood, he said nothing inside…just his thoughts, they spoke the loudest. Then the detective took out his tweezers and quickly plucked out the splinters and whenever John resisted or winced, Sherlock softly brushed along John's face …the warmth of his skin calmed John down enough so he could remove the rest.

Through the haze of the drugs, John was pliable, docile…almost like a child, however THIS wasn’t John…this was his weakened shell or perhaps this WAS the true form of Sherlock’s reserve. To the detective, John was the worn solider who was capable of shouldering the heavy load of his psyche, of his well disguised bravado. THIS shambled thing was the human underneath it all and Sherlock held him close.

The cabbie didn’t even know where to take them and was going to ask when his mobile’s GPS highlighted a route to 221B Baker Street. The cabbie wondered how this was possible!? Who was he taking to this location?

But it didn’t look like Sherlock wanted to talk and the cabbie was smart to enough to notice that. He took the directions and fare and drove on…

Up the stairs, Sherlock lugged his shaken friend upward…John would come to and then falter…he wasn’t steady but Sherlock could tell that the lingering effects from the exposure was waning and placed John on the sofa as he ran the bath for him. He was feeling a little steady and wobbled to the bathroom.

“Sherlock…w-what did I?” John whispered in the doorway and Sherlock turned to him, “I…didn’t hurt anyone..did I?”

“No one but yourself…can you take off your clothes?” John meekly fumbled on the buttons, his fingers still stung from the splinter wounds among other small injuries and Sherlock rose to his feet to help him.

“Sherlock..what did I..I swore I saw him.”

“You SAW nothing…just memories.”

“I FELT him…I FELT the blood..I…God help me.” Sherlock held John’s face, he truly believed in what he saw, “It wasn’t real…he’s dead..the dead…can’t speak.”

“No, not in the _traditional_ sense John. Get in the bath.”

“A-anything to see my bum right?” John nervously smiled and stepped into the warm bath water then slid down inside, “A-ahh I’m useless to you like this y’know..?” The words struck Sherlock hard and his gaze softened when he saw John’s eyes turn into puddles; he pressed his kisses against the edges to stop the tears from falling. Everything felt so weak around John, the wit dried away and all was left was the realization of his own broken self…

“You’re many things…but not useless. Never useless...” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock nearly pulling him into the tub and Sherlock would’ve gladly accepted it. He would’ve gladly accepted being crushed at this point as long as he could stop hearing John’s sobs, feeling John’s body shuddering.

Each tear John shed, _he kissed_ , each sob, _he kissed_. Until they stopped, Sherlock _wouldn’t_.

*********************

John managed to untangle himself from Sherlock’s long limbs, not because he hated it but because it was now morning and he was completely well or as well as he was going to be. It was always somewhat of a puzzle in itself to get himself free and out of the bed WITHOUT waking the detective but it was ALWAYS a nice way to wake up.

What he wanted was to forget about last night, forget how _stupid_ he was to think that a dead friend-no matter how much he loved him-could communicate with him much less try to get him killed. Why couldn’t he seen through the drugs’ side effects like Sherlock? WHY couldn’t he deduced that it wasn’t REAL?

Perhaps, because deep down in his soul, he WANTED it to be real…John blamed himself for his army friend’s death for so long and then buried it. Hoping to forget it in his new turbulent (but NEVER boring) life, John took pride that with Sherlock, despite his amazing brain and wit...could be frail and lost…but NEVER him, least not outwardly, again his pride dictated many of his actions whether good or ill….it was not just a personal failing, pride was a natural failing of simplily being a man.

John looked at Sherlock still sleeping in the bed, there was his savior, clinging to John’s cooling pillow and where he slept…he didn’t tell Sherlock but he often took a pic or two of him sleeping; just a simple reminder that the man WAS human and thus vulnerable to being photag unknowingly at times. He smiled at his lover, yawned and left the room to set a kettle, yesterday after the bath, Sherlock made him some coffee…it was terrible…for a man with such a keen mind, he seemed to always forget that John doesn’t drink coffee with sugar or at least an amount small enough not to be noticeable.

“He used to fix my tea and coffee like that too.” Mycroft said in the reclined chair of the living room, giving John a fright. He calmed down to notice the tea already set with cups and fancy biscuits at the ready, this wasn’t fixed by Ms Hudson…clearly Mycroft had people here to do this, “It’s a seeded memory, I doubt even Sherlock recalls the why anymore.”

“You two are more alike then you care to admit.” John answered and Mycroft sent him an obvious look, “Right, right of course…now could you explain why, no wait nevermind.”

“My brother nearly tore apart London to get you back, I never seen such a heated emotion on his face before. I suppose that’s a good sign that he’s finally coming out of his shell a bit.” And Mycroft’s gaze softens, “For that, I thank you.”

“Me? Well I SHOULD be thanking HIM…he saved my life yesterday.” John smiled as he poured the tea for them and Mycroft kept his eyes on John silently, it was a little nerve racking…the Holmes brother shared so many traits and the ‘downloading’ stare was one of them.

“But its continual with him, now if you could only get him to be more..agreeable.” John offered him a cup but he raised his hand in refusal.

“Good GOD Mycroft, get OUT!” Sherlock shrieked from his bedroom and Mycroft stood up with his umbrella, “I don’t care!” Mycroft left a manila envelope on the table and shook his head as he walked to the door contently. “BED!”

“Duty calls it seems.”

“I’m not complaining. Err..he’ll call.”

“No he won’t…but that’s why we have you.”

“We?” John asked and Mycroft left, he looked at the manila envelope and returned to bed.

He was a man of many roles and weaknesses, a wounded doctor, a tattered solider, a timid lover, worn rock and line…but now…John assumes his favourite role-a lumpy pillow.

 

**END**


End file.
